


The Death of Kings

by handofsilver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 20,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handofsilver/pseuds/handofsilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>››Roaring flames cast their dancing shadows on marble walls, on a throne made of a thousand swords that had been forged in the breath of dragons. A silver prince stood near that throne, looking down to the fire that engulfed his second wife, his future queen.<br/>They all stood and watched as a mad king laughed and the future of the realm crumbled before their eyes.<br/>For they all knew that one day, the she-wolf‘s pack would return to their land, cut off their bloodied hands and howl at the moon while the South burned in the frozen wrath of wolves.‹‹</p><p>Years after the Mad King burned Lyanna Targaryen and drove her family from Westeros, the Starks wage war against the dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this was made for the asoiafbigbang on tumblr ( http://asoiafbigbang.tumblr.com ), hosted by thestarkinhighgarden (tumblr) / SecondStarOnTheLeft (AO3)
> 
> Please take your time to admire this breathtaking artwork GhostRelic has created to accompany my story: http://fav.me/d6sxys7  
> Thank you, dear! <3
> 
> 20k words until Nov 1 – and oh, how hard I fought :'D this was supposed to be so much longer but ... well. I decided that 'vignettes' would be easer for me to do since I struggled to write this (a completely new experience for me, I was frustrated as hell). Prepare for short chapters LOL. and confusion. a lot of confusion.  
> Also, please bear with me, English is not my native language - if there are any mistakes, do not hesitate to tell me!
> 
> That's it from me for now ... enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> [ Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended. ]

**Prologue**

 

 

The throne room of the Red Keep was filled with men and women from all the Kingdoms. Noblemen and knights, their wives and daughters, soldiers, princes, and one king.

Roaring flames cast their dancing shadows on marble walls, on a throne made of a thousand swords that had been forged in the breath of dragons. A silver prince stood near that throne, looking down to the fire that engulfed his second wife, his future queen.

A child screamed.

And as the she-wolf burned, the realm‘s finest warriors stood still. The best and the worst men in seven kingdoms who prided themselves with noble mind and nobler blood stared in disbelief and fear.

They all stood and watched as a mad king laughed and the future of the realm crumbled before their eyes.

For they all knew that one day, the she-wolf‘s pack would return to their land, cut off their bloodied hands and howl at the moon while the South burned in the frozen wrath of wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also prepare yourself for a lot of metaphors~ with the respective house sigil. I do use them a lot.


	2. Prelude I

 

 

 

**Prelude I – The lands of always summer**

 

 

 

In the Free Cities, it is always summer. The polished stone that covered the richer streets of Tyrosh glistened in the midday heat, so hot to the touch of skin that even the slaves were not allowed to walk barefooted. A river of brightly coloured hair danced through the alleys that led to the market, and foreign chatter reached Eddard Stark‘s ears in waves, as the wind came and went and blew the voices to and fro.

“I will never learn this language,“ Catelyn sighed and he turned around to face her. He reached up to touch one strand of her red hair, softly tugged at it. She smiled. Oh, how he loved her hair.

“You are the one who speaks it best of all of us,“ he said. “Apart from the kids, it is like they were born with it.“

“Well, they _were_ – they were born with it.“ Cat smiled a sad smile, a delicate, hardly conceivable tug at the corner of her upper lip, her head tilted downwards and her eyes narrowed. It hurt Ned that he had to see it so often on her beautiful face. She deserved to be happy, and yet he could not give it to her, not him. Tyrosh was a city more than five times the size of Winterfell, but for her, for all of them, it was like being stuck in a cage as opposed to their home.

He tried a smile himself, and failed horribly.

This, at least, provoked a small laugh from Cat, but her eyes were still wrinkled with sorrow, not joy. “Why is it that, whenever we talk, your smiles look more like you were frowning?“

“Perhaps I am not a man of words,“ he said quietly.

“More of deeds, I know.“ Her right hand reached for his but stopped halfway. “And one of honour. Unfortunately.“

He opened his mouth as if to say something – although he really did not know what he could _possibly_ say, for all that she said was the truth – when the door was slammed open.

“Brother – _wife_.“ Brandon stormed in, hardly stopping to acknowledge their presence. Much more reserved, and more quietly, Rickard Stark entered behind him, closing the door to the solar. Ned‘s father poured all of them a glass of wine each, with the careful and measured motions of a man who had had to learn to be patient, while Brandon threw himself in a chair, very obviously furious and brooding.

Ned hesitated to ask for, as much as he loved his elder brother, it was sometimes better not to make himself noticed when Brandon was in a mood. Cat followed his example.

Finally, Rickard Stark let himself down into one of the dark wooden chairs, sighing quietly. His eyes met those of his younger son and he nodded once. “They accepted.“

“Greyjoy?“ Catelyn asked not without hopeful hesitation.

“Yes, Balon fucking Greyjoy,“ Brandon huffed grimly. “And the fucking Tyrells. They all accepted your offers. _Your_ offers, wife, not mine. Should this go wrong – “

“It will not.“ Suddenly, steel mixed with the velvet of her voice. Ned fought to hide the admiration in his eyes and turned away to grab one of the wine glasses his father had poured. The red Tyroshi poison burned in his throat, now more than ever since he felt mead, winter and _home_ coming closer to their grasp than for the past twenty-three years. “It will not.“

“Let us hope so,“ Rickard murmured and raised his glass.

 _Home_ , Ned thought, and he saw the same look in his father‘s eyes, and when he dared glance over to Cat, she finally had a _real_ smile tugging at her lips.

_Home._

 

 

* 

 

Arya leaned back and stared at her sister. “What do you think they meant?“ she asked while grabbing a peach. When she and her brother Bran had witnessed not only their father storming into the house in a rage yet to be matched by another they had seen, but also their grandfather following with much less fury and much more force, they had picked up the habit they had harboured as children again – to spy on the adults. It had been a fruitful enterprise.

With that lazy elegance that her twenty-year-old sister had adopted during the years since her flowering, Sansa looked up from her embroidery and put her needles away. “How am I supposed to know? They have been planning something for years now.“

“Do you think it has something to do with revenge? For what they did to Aunt Lyanna, for what they did to us?“ Arya‘s eyes shone. “Do you think they plan on returning to Westeros soon?“

Sansa only shrugged and picked up a peach herself. Her carefully pinned-up flaming hair reflected some of the light of the quickly setting sun, the orange shafts of sunlight playing on her somehow still ivory-coloured skin. The silks their grandfather had given her for her last name-day swirled around her feminine frame as she moved, with small sapphires blinking on a single ring she wore, the only piece of jewelry she allowed herself to wear on regular days. Arya eyed her sister with envious suspicion. She knew why her sister had many suitors, yet she could only guess why she had turned them all down. Sansa was their father‘s darling girl, Arya would bet her sword that he had told her something that the younger sister didn‘t know.

But she kept that suspicion to herself. Bran would know. Bran always knew everything.

Just as she turned to go, Sansa raised her voice. “Arya.“

She looked back, not saying a word when her older sister locked her eyes with hers, steel in those blue depths that Arya had failed to inherit from their mother. “Valar morghulis.“

“Valar dohaeris,“ she answered automatically. “What do you mean?“

“All men must die.“

Arya furrowed her brows. “I know what it means, what do – “

“Even kings are only men.“ With a slight tilt of her head, Sansa picked up her embroidery again, seemingly not acknowledging her sister‘s presence further. However, Arya still understood, and their thoughts echoed from the walls simultaneously.

_Winter is coming._

“And even kings are not immune to the cold,“ Arya added with a grim smile.

 

In the Free Cities, it is always summer. Wolves are made for winter.


	3. Prelude II

**Prelude II – Madness and greatness**

 

 

There is a saying that, when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. A golden dragon for a dragon concealed in weak human flesh. Either the snake burns from within and devours the royal mind, or the two souls intertwine and the family wins a new face to show the people; _all is well_ , they say then. As long as there is one beautiful and sane member of the family to inflame the love of the crowd, the people can ignore the madness that lurks behind closed doors.

Marble and stone threw back the prince‘s screams twice and thrice. “I will not have it! This is an outrage! A _disgrace_!“

Dany backed away slightly. She made her thin shoulders tremble with fear, and it was not hard to pretend that she was afraid. Her body was still weak from the fever and the high stone walls locked out the summer heat that the common people of King‘s Landing suffered from. She closed her eyes as her brother-husband raged on.

“Now that whore is with child – “ His hands seized her shoulders like chains, _iron like the throne he wants_. “ – and you are _not_!“

She ducked. It was the only thing she _could_ do when something had woken the dragon. Not her, it had _not_ been her this time, what could she have done? But their childhood in the cold of Dragonstone had taught her well. When she had only been his sister, she had not been able not resist him, only a child and weak and not a dragon at all, and when she finally could – _here_ , in King‘s Landing, with Rhaegar and their father the _King_ – when she finally could, she was not allowed to. She was his wife now. His sister-wife, his wife-sister, his _wife_.

Only Arianne protected her sometimes, defying their husband with a rage that could only be matched by his own. The fires of Dorne burned in her new sister, but Viserys was a _dragon_ and even the flaming sun and spear could not withstand him. It was Dany who suffered most afterwards, though. And for that, she sometimes hated Arianne.

“I was ill, husband, I could not – “

For that, and for being in Dorne, for ruling alongside her father and for leaving Dany at the mercy of Viserys‘ desires.

“That Tyrell bitch carries the future king of the Seven Kingdoms and the Targaryen line will be stained with lesser blood! It should be _our_ son who will sit on the throne!“

“There is nothing we can do to change that – even Aegon is – “

“Aegon is not king yet,“ Viserys growled. “Not even Rhaegar. Aegon the Conqueror won the throne for the blood of our Targaryen ancestors, for the royal and pure blood of Old Valyria that runs in _our_ veins, not for some half-bred son of a weak Dornish whore!“

Dany was lucky this time. Her husband stormed out, leaving her unharmed, untouched. In the end, it had not been her after all who had woken the dragon.

A dragon who had left her before she had even come into the world, as it seemed. Blown away by the storm that had ravaged the coast of Westeros the night she had been born, washed away by the blood of her dying mother. A dragon is always born mad or great, and she did not feel _great_. Mad, perhaps. Mad with loneliness. Mad with sorrow.

She clutched her empty belly with her thin arms. In the six years of their marriage, Viserys had not managed to put a child in her. Not once. He had restrained his anger about this misfortune since Aegon, too, had no heirs yet, and neither did Daemon, their youngest brother. But now, he was once again reminded that for their children to be pure and take the throne one day, there had to be children to begin with.

It was true though, that Aegon desired his rose wife more than he had ever wanted Rhaenys. Sometimes Dany wondered if they had ever lain together at all, if they cared to do so at all, so it was no wonder that Margaery, beautiful, kind, wicked Margaery with roses in her hair and her smiles and her words had enchanted her nephew more than his sister-wife. _(Her nephew who was older than her and who was kind and generous and brave and who did not have to force his wife to bear his child, and who would one day sit on the throne of iron with sun and flower at each side.)_

 

Mad with envy, that she was. Mad with fear, that Viserys would soon come back and decide that _she_ had woken the dragon. And mad with hate because the Gods had tossed a coin and it had fallen on the wrong side. Mad. Mad. Mad.

 

* 

 

Oh, Visenya did hate the heat so. It made her all sweaty and sticky and the city smelled even worse than it did in the cold. In those rare moments that she was alone with her thoughts, with no brother-husband and no fish sister to invade her much longed for solitude, she wished for Dragonstone and cold winds and rains and storms that would match her desire to be one with them. Wild and destructive like the wrath of a god.

Daemon said it was because she was a Northern bastard and longed for the cold, and Jeyne Tully the fish nodded and smiled. She did not understand that this was what Daemon loved about Visenya, or she did not want to understand, and that this was what he desired. For every night he lay with Jeyne, he spent ten in Visenya‘s chamber, and Visenya liked to say that it was because Jeyne was a fish everywhere you would touch her, cold and damp and wriggly and thoroughly unpleasant to the skin. Her father the Prince had once chided her for such a remark and she was well aware that a princess should not say that to another, but Jeyne Tully _was_ a fish and she was neither fit nor worthy to be raised to a dragon.

Sighing, she lay back on her bed, all the air her lungs had held coming out in a loud puff. Oh yes, there was only one thing that she hated more than the heat, and that was Jeyne Tully the fish. At least the heat did not try to steal her husband from her.

 

A hesitant knock made her jump out of the bed as fast as she could, and was immediately followed by the creak of the door and a thin face surrounded by a crown of dark locks.

“Daemon,“ she grinned, earning a soft smile in return. For a moment she wondered what it would have been like if his twin Jahaerys would have lived, if his mother princess Elia would have lived – what it would have been like to have a mother. Pushing those thoughts away, she let her fingers play in the ends of her long locks even darker than his, and made slow little steps towards her husband, the exact way how she could and would to drive him mad with desire every time. _As mad as a true Targaryen._ She did not need a mother for that, and neither for what would follow. All the rest lay in the past.

Cautiously, he closed the door behind him. She stopped and impatiently wriggled her bare toes on the marble floor.

It only took two long steps for him to reach her, and his hands gently cupped her red face. _(Red from the heat.)_ “Wife,“ he whispered with a quiet grin and slowly touched her smiling lips with his.

No, she needed no mother for that.


	4. Prelude III

**Prelude III – The cat and the fish**

 

 

 

There was no place for a lion like the water, no place he hated more. Even more so a cub that proudly thought herself to be a lioness, Tyrion thought, and mockingly raised an eyebrow. “Quite the masterpiece.“ A golden lion on blue and red ground. Only a hint of her name was hidden in his niece‘s stitching. “Have you shown it to your mother?“

Tyra smacked him on the head with the piece of cloth she had been working on and he couldn‘t help but grin. “It was meant for my lord father.“

“A handkerchief to wipe his arse with, I suppose.“

“Oh, _do_ grow up, uncle.“

“I wouldn‘t know what else your father would use a lion for.“

Deafening shatter of something that definitely should not be treated in such a brutal way, made his eyes roll.

“Right now, he is obviously fighting with one,“ Tyra sighed and picked up her needle again.

“Are they going to blame it on a sword again?“ Tyrion smirked. “I remember last time all too well, when our dear aunt Genna was stopping by on her journey to King‘s Landing and overheard them – and your loving mother blamed it on poor Tommen who had supposedly been training in his room and knocked over a vase.“

“He carried the burden of shame like a true knight.“ His niece smirked back. “Too bad great-aunt Genna did not quite believe our lady mother.“

They both bit back a laugh when another piece of furniture suffered from Lannister rage some rooms away. It still seemed to Tyrion, though, that Tyra‘s movements became jerky, strained, the tension spreading up to her shoulders and her delicate neck that was bent gracefully, so similar to how Tyrion imagined his mother to have held her head. Long fingers danced with the needle, golden Lannister curls framing her cheekbones and her well-defined lips that resembled her mother _(and his mother, she was his mother reborn)_. The golden lion on scarlet ground. Only those spots of blue that broke the mirror of Tywin Lannister‘s love and pride, woven like tiny sapphires into the silk stretched over the tambour, those Tully blue eyes that once again and continuously reminded his family of their failure.

Edmure Tully had been a child, no match for the golden lioness of House Lannister, the apple of his father‘s eye – a testament to their floating position in the Seven Kingdoms after Rhaegar Targaryen had wed Lyanna Stark, inflaming his father‘s fury as well as that of the Starks, the Martells, the Baratheons and most other Great Houses in the realm. Tyrion had not even been a man, but he remembered very clearly how the Northerners had seemed to have lost the conflict, banned from all the kingdoms and forced into exile, yet it had not felt that way. He remembered his aunt‘s fits of rage, his uncle Kevan‘s nearly desperate behaviour – and his father‘s stoic calm. The only sign of his helplessness, when isolated from all the other Houses, was Tywin Lannister the lion turning to a trout for an alliance. A cat that begged a fish for help. There had been no shame greater for his family than to see Cersei Lannister, only daughter of the mighty Tywin, beautiful like the rising sun and read to be wedded and bedded and to bear children, walking down the sept with child Edmure Tully, not even a future Warden. Now all she could ever be was the wife of a Lord, mother to a girl wed to a younger Prince who preferred his sister, when being _Queen_ had been in their reach once.

 

*

 

It took one wrong step to bring him down. The hard dusty floor knocked the air out of Tommen‘s lungs as he hit the ground, his great-uncle pressing the blade against his bare, exposed throat.

“Dead,“ Brynden said with a frown, then helped him up. “Now, what am I to do with you, tell me that, boy.“

Grimacing, Tommen rubbed his shoulder where had received a hard blow from the Blackfish some time before. He could already feel the bruise coming. “I do not know, uncle. I‘m sorry.“

Brynden Tully cuffed him with the force of a bear trying to hug. “Don‘t be sorry, lad. Your father was way more useless than you when he was your age, I guess.“ A small grin showed on his face. “And I made a decent swordsman out of him. You, at least, could be a good tourney knight.“

“You think I could?“ Tommen breathed excitedly. “Like my uncle Jaime.“

The Blackfish‘s blue eyes darkened, so much like his own and those of his sisters. „No. But you will be good. Worse than some, but also better than most. You might even win some tournaments.“ He huffed and turned around to leave. “Whatever that is worth.“

Tommen did not let himself be irritated by his uncle‘s behaviour. “Thank you, uncle.“

He sometimes wondered why his father‘s family would always be so very hateful of his other family. Mother always said it was because of their jealousy, that they were envoius of the Lannister glory that his family could never hope for. A Tully could never achieve a lion‘s greatness, fish that they were. “Why did you marry him then?“ Tommen had asked, and he did not know what he could still feel more strongly today – the sting of his sisters‘ reprimanding glances or the blow of his mother‘s hand. He was too young, he was told, to understand any of it. Three-and-ten he was, and his parents‘ wedding lay nineteen years in the past. He would never understand, but he must never forget that of all the Houses, House Lannister was the greatest, and the most glorious and mighty.

He was still Tommen Tully, though, and his King was a Targaryen, and he would not give in to Mother, or to Tyra, or to Joanna, or to Jeyne. They were women, and he was almost a man. He could only stand with his father and the Blackfish, or else people would say that he was his mother‘s son and not his father‘s, and that was not a thing people should say about their future lord.

With a smile that might have looked grim on anyone else but young Tommen, he adjusted the weight of the sword in his hand. Lions were terrifying creatures, but even they feared the water.


	5. Prelude IV

**Prelude IV : and with the crash of waves**

 

 

 

When the waves crashed on the rocks, when the sky roared with rage and poured its tears of anger down on the trees and the grass and the stone and soaked the earth with its soul, when the ground shook with its screams, that was the best time for a feast in the storm keep. Then men and women both danced and threw themselves at each other like the waves on the rocks and burst like foam that sprinkles the stone, only to swing to the other direction again and find another rock.

It was in this clangour that young Myrcella Baratheon stomped in the rhythm of the drums that dictated the pace of the dance, of her heartbeat. It was her name-day, and she loved nothing more than the feasts her father organised in her honour. Every Stormlander with a name and a reputation had gathered for the sixteenth time for his lord‘s first and favourite daughter, and she had danced with every man in the hall – twice.

Even if the weather had not darkened the sky over Storm‘s End as early as midday, it would have been night outside by the time Myrcella let herself slump into her chair unceremoniously, still giggling and tapping her hurting feet. She gulped down several swallows of Arbour Red when her younger sister sat down in the chair next to her, shooting her a disapproving glance.

“You should have restrained yourself, sister. It is inappropriate, especially the way you danced with that Penrose boy, Steffon. One could think you were lovers.“ Cassana took a sip of her own wine. “ _I_ know you aren‘t but others don‘t, and your unwillingness to choose a suitable husband has given people reason to talk _already_. And knowing you – and nobility – you will choose none yet for _years_ and there will be even _more_ talk.“ Her melodic voice rose and fell with the words as if she were singing, and while Myrcella knew that she herself was a lot more what most people would call _beautiful_ , with her black locks, expressive features and the bosom that most men could not help but stare at, she envied her sister her voice that could entrance even the most unwilling and most stoic of conversational partners. Myrcella was more like their father, or like Renly, both in looks and mind – Cassana, though, always reminded her of Stannis, as long as she remained silent. Then she opened her mouth and the square jaw and stern eyes faded into the background whilst one had the impression of listening not to the youngest Baratheon lady but to a singer from Lys.

Then her sister cast her a look – _the_ look as she liked to call it, the Stannis-look, the look that reminded one of every sin committed in one‘s entire life – and Myrcella snorted, unease suddenly settling in her stomach. She knew her sister had long suspected it, but what if others knew? “I am merely six-and-ten, Cassana,. There is no need for _talk_ at all. Father himself only married late, and he was in need of an heir, which I am not.“

Cassana did not answer to that, yet the knowing look in Myrcella‘s child-sister‘s eyes gave the lie to her three-and-ten years. She saw things she should not, and she understood more than Myrcella could ever hope to even perceive.

She forced a smile upon her face. Suddenly, the drums, chatter and laughter started hammering down on her forehead, the wine growing stale in her mouth. “Let us not talk of such things,“ she wanted to say, but it came out as a whisper. “Let us not.“

Cassana put her glass down with force. “We will one day.“

Just as she wanted to answer – _never, and yes, we will, no we will not, sister, you are no longer my sister if you ask me this, I promised_ –, Myrcella saw a door opening out of the corner of her eye. Her sister followed her eyes, and so they both witnessed their father entering the hall from a side door not far from behind his seat, holding a piece of parchment in his hand. Behind him followed Renly and Stannis who, unexpectedly, had decided to visit for her name-day. She had been overjoyed at their sudden arrive two days prior to this feast _(overjoyed at Renly‘s arrival, surprised at Stannis‘)_ , but now she started to wonder if it had really been her name-day that had motivated them to travel to Storm‘s End.

Then their mother entered the hall, and then the girls knew something was truly amiss. Their father‘s and uncles‘ calm and reserved expressions, though so unlike Robert and Renly, had not unnerved to the same level that their mother‘s did, since Jeyne, born of House Swann of Stonehelm, immediately crossed over to them.

“Mother, what is it?“ Cassana asked quietly, a pleasant smile on her face although her eyes screamed out their worry. “Is everything alright?“

“Girls, I need you not to worry and give your best performance tonight.“ Jeyne Baratheon forced a slight smile onto her face while the sisters exchanged a worried look. Myrcella felt the bile rising in her throat. Was this the day she had feared for years? “Your father will announce something tonight, girls, and it must seem that you knew of it. It has long since been planned, and tonight, events will be set in motion that might have a great impact on your futures. You will both come to your father‘s study after the feast, where all will be explained to you.“

Cassana nodded. “Yes, mother.“

“What is it that he plans on announcing?“ Myrcella blurted out, a small part of the tension exploding that had been creeping from her hands up into her arms and spreading in her flesh. “Tell us, mother, _please_.“

“Shush now,“ their mother said harshly, a glare not unlike Cassana‘s piercing Myrcella‘s eyes. “You will hear it. But please, Myrcella – no surprises.“

Slightly taken aback by her mother‘s reaction, she nodded and sank back into her chair. The memories of the day that she had found her father‘s correspondence danced in front of her eyes. She had only been twelve, a little girl with no knowledge of war and suffering whatsoever, and took the contents of the letters for a joke. After all, she had only read them because the smell of foreign spices that clung to them had caught her attention. Then her father had stormed into the study, and it had been the only time in her life that she had been frightened of him, looming over her, not screaming, not yelling in rage, only fixating her with cold eyes _(he was Stannis‘ brother after all)_ , and whispering to her of secrets and alliances and treason, that she should never tell anyone or they would all be dead, him and mother and Renly and Stannis and even her and Cassana, all of them. _The King is mad_ , he had said to her, _you don‘t know what that means yet, love, but it is not a good thing, and he fears his own shadow. We are more than shadows, and more dangerous to him, and he will not hesitate to have our heads on spikes._ And he had told her all about the burning of a woman he had loved, about his brother-in-heart Ned, about the rage of wolves and about the time when summer starts to melt into the ground and winter takes over. _Our flesh is made of storms_ , he had said, and winter storms are even more terrible than those that ravage the land in summer. The day of retribution would come, and Myrcella feared it more than anything else; she had feared it from the day her father had told her of the past with murder in his voice, she had feared war and death and loss, and a part of the child in her had been lost forever when in that night, she woke screaming for the first time with her sister‘s screams and her father‘s rotting head before her eyes.

 

Robert Baratheon raised his voice, the hall fell silent, but it seemed like all the bells of King‘s Landing were ringing in her ears. She hardly heard when her father announced her betrothal to Prince Quentyn of House Martell, smiled and gently leant her head to the side, gracefully receiving the clapping and the congratulations, while her heart raced and the blood in her veins seemed to flood her mind. _We are more than shadows_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne Swann actually is a character who is mentioned in canon. (just wanted to throw that in.)


	6. Prelude V

**Prelude V: the hearts of always winter**

 

 

“Robert has sent his agreement. He plans on holding a war council with his brothers and his bannermen, and when they come to an agreement, he will send word to Highgarden and the Eyrie.“

“You mean, when Robert has forced them to agree to go to war, when Renly has charmed them into believing it was their own free will and when Stannis has made them accept their own inferiority in the face of his strategic genius,“ Brandon interrupted his father and Catelyn leant forward. “So everyone has sent word. Is Lord Karstark ready to rally the North?“

“He is already calling the banners.“ Ned looked up from his hands, from the parchment he had been holding there from the moment it had arrived. The final piece on the board had been set. He had always hated the game. “Your brother promises that he will do so once his daughter has returned from the capital. He has already sent for her, Jeyne should be with him in a matter of weeks.“

“Why did he marry her off to that bastard in the first place,“ Brandon huffed. “He knew that it would not be for a long time. Imagine what could have happened had she borne a child.“

“It is not like he had a choice in that matter.“ Catelyn shot her husband a reprimanding stare. “Daemon Targaryen lay an eye on Jeyne, he needed a second wife besides his sister, so he took her. Edmure is a mere lord, the boy a prince and one of his grandfather‘s favourites besides, my brother has written me. It was impossible to refuse him. At least it was Jeyne,“ she added with a raised eyebrow, „that girl seems capable enough to survive in the capital. Tyra and Joanna are way more proud and so _Lannister_ that my brother even thought about sending them to court, despite his sensitive position now. Jeyne is simpler in that regard.“

“Well, then I am sure that that girl will make us no trouble.“ Rickard waved his hand dismissively. “On to the Greyjoys.“

 

*

 

„ _Who_?“ The tip of Robb‘s sword, pointed at the sky ready for battle just moments before, fell to the ground with a _clank_. His face followed the movement. “A Greyjoy?“

“ _The_ Greyjoy,“ Bran nodded and crossed his arms. Arya furrowed her brows at his side. “Grandfather probably promised them the Salt Throne in return, and who could blame him, we need their ships now more than we will ever need them again.“

“What, were you eavesdropping again?“ Jon crossed over to them from the dummy he had been battering with his longsword. “What is it with the Greyjoys?“

“Robb is to marry Asha,“ Arya helped before her brothers could say a word. “He will sail directly to the Iron Islands, wed her and bed her under the suspicious eyes of her father, brothers and uncles, and then she will accompany him.“ She grinned a little. “Good luck fucking her with the Crow‘s Eye watching, brother.“

Robb‘s cheeks and neck grew furiously red, and he puffed up with indignation. “I will not _fuck_ her with them literally watching, Arya,“ he objected, a laugh of protest forming on the top of his throat. “I don‘t think that will be necessary.“

She just shrugged. “They‘re the Greyjoys, Gods know what is going on in their minds.“

“Are we their only ally or are there – ?“ Jon asked and crossed his arms. „Because I would not trust them with just one marriage.“

“One of our cousins will wed Rodrik, Balon‘s heir,“ Bran explained. “In exchange, they have to provide us with a fleet on the wedding day or the deal is done with.“

Arya threw him a leery glance. “You are awfully well-informed, Bran. Grandfather did not say anything about that just now.“

“Well, you could say I am very attentive.“ A crooked smile showed up on Bran‘s face. “And climbing does have its benefits.“

Robb clapped once. “Shut up, you two,“ he interrupted them. “What else did they say? What about Sansa, what about Jon?“

“ _You_ shut up yourself,“ Arya shouted indignantly, but crossed her arms, mirroring her cousin, and started to recite what they had overheard during the elders‘ meeting. “Jon seems to get the Karstark girl, no idea what her name is, father said it will be good to have a Stark in the North. Sansa stays in the South, she marries the Tyrell heir in secret until everything surfaces. Bran —“

Robb raised a hand. “Isn‘t he a cripple? Why would they marry her off to someone like that? Is he even able to sire an heir himself?“

After hesitating for a second, Arya just shrugged, and Bran shook his head. “He should not be the problem,“ he said.

“Then who is?“ Jon had grown quiet after Arya had revealed the plans for his future marriage. The Karstark family was renown for being the Stark‘s kin, one of the oldest and most powerful Houses in the North, and now he was to marry their only daughter? Arya had not remembered her name, but Jon knew – _Alys_ , a good name, a Northern name, and though he had always been sure that his father regarded him as his true son despite what had happened between him and Jon‘s mother, this was something else entirely. To trust him with the bond to the North – that must mean that not only Eddard, but Rickard and Brandon, too, had granted him the title of being a _Stark_ , not in name or blood, but in duty and deed as well. Something grew in the pit of his stomach, something that made him dizzy and feverish.

“Who is the problem?“ he repeated again, more clearly, as he hoped. The trembling in his fingertips told him that he did not care, but he needed to know what fate awaited his family. _Jon Stark, not just some bastard borne by a Southern beauty, but family now._

“No one yet.“ Bran scratched his brown and rubbed his neck, and Jon saw the same red creeping up from his shoulders that had engraved itself in Robb‘s skin. “Cassana Baratheon should make no trouble, from what uncle Ned has told us of her and her sister, and Arya will marry Trystane Martell.“

“What else?“ Jon asked. “ – _Who_ else?“

“Myrcella Baratheon and Quentyn Martell, and as Arya said, one of the Tullys marries Rodrik, but they didn‘t say who, Brandon just mentioned _Edmure‘s girl_. I wouldn‘t know of anyone else.“

“And thus we have our claws in every Great House in the Seven Kingdoms.“ The quiver of his fingers grew into something else, and he had to clench his fist to prevent it from spreading. “When do we set sail?“

“Before the fortnight is over.“ Bran grinned, locking gazes with Arya, his expression mirrored in hers. “We are going _home_.“

Silence.

He felt his nails biting into his palm, and Jon loosened his fists a bit. “Winter is coming,“ he murmured then.

Bran‘s boyish smirk melted into a grim smile, its sharp edges cutting into his pretty Tully face. “And this one will be long.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also like to refer to house words a lot. Apologies for that.


	7. I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All following chapter titles are taken from Woodkid's song "Iron"

**I. Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away**

 

 

The heavens wept. Their tears had been pouring down since very day that Rickard, Robb and Cat had landed on the Iron Islands, weeks upon weeks of salt water and a land buried in snow behind them. Like the Gods of Old, in a close half-circle, clad in mail, leather and iron, the Greyjoy family had awaited them in Pyke, the Starks who were drenched in sea water and sky water alike, wet and dripping like dogs crawling on their doorstep. Catelyn had thanked the Seven that Brandon had not been with them, or he would have lost his head. It had been trying, yet Rickard, Robb and her had somehow still succeeded in reminding the Greyjoys who it was that gave them a crown. They were wolves, not cats, and a little water did not harm them.

 

Wind and rain could not smother the chanted words of Aeron Greyjoy while he poured salt water down on four young heads. Catelyn's heart wept with pride as she watched her son cloak the bride in grey and white, buried in the sea up to his knees. Even though Asha looked far from the Maiden in her chainmail and the throwing axe tucked in her belt, Robb's appearance left no doubt over the great line of Kings he came from. The ocean spray covered him and his old bride in a layer of salt, while the rain pouring down from the clouds soaked them and the odd pair of Tyra Tully and Rodrik Greyjoy in the cold sweat of the skies. Her niece was wrapped in black, her previously so elaborately pinned up golden hair sticking to her face, and still so beautiful it should be forbidden. Catelyn wanted to see her own mother in her, but she was afraid that Minisa Tully, born of House Whent, was as forgotten by her descendants as she was by the world.

Joanna Tully stood near-by Catelyn, just as soaked as they all were in her expensive fur cloak and the wool scarf wrapped around her head, no doubt both sponsored by her mother's family, lips pursed and brows furrowed not much unlike a drenched cat. A figure of ridicule, so much less dangerous. But on the contrary to the middle Tully sister, Tyra held her head as high as her kraken husband, fingers strained yet still gracefully intertwined, and looked as much at home in her dripping environment as the trout that her father had always hoped she would become. _Family Duty Honour_ , every fibre of her body said, _the honour to serve my family dutifully._ For a moment, she reminded Catelyn of herself when she had wed Brandon so many years ago, but then her niece turned her head and the cold green eyes locked with hers, a lion waiting to launch at its prey.

 

*

 

The halls of Pyke still rung with the echo of the Ironborn roaring for the bedding of two brides, more than eager to tear not at their lord’s daughter’s mail, for that proved indeed so impossible that Asha entered the bedroom nearly completely clad, in ridiculous contrast to her boy-husband who stood before her blushing and as naked as a babe, but to rip off the golden dress off the Lannister’s spawn, a triumph they had long-since longed for. A shame that she had not been able to witness it, really. If there had been anything she had been looking forward to in this whole affair, then it had been to see a Lannister humiliated by her people, and no matter how Tully her name was and how much the messenger had insisted on her being _exclusively Lord Edmure’s offer, not Lord Tywin’s_ , one look at the girl had confirmed all of their fears – Lannister through and through, she was, and no affectionate word or gentle look could belie the hunger and ice in her eyes.

Asha slumped into her chair unceremoniously, taking in the not-too-bad look of her boy-husband who had sat down on the bed, sipping on a horn of ale that she had given him to soothe his gentle maiden nerves over the fact that he looked more like a blushing bride than she did. He had looked impressive and even imposing on the shores, and for a moment Asha had doubted her uncle’s words about the Essos heat that had melted the ice core of the Stark family. But now he looked like a boy – or more a boy in a man’s body. Nine-and-ten he was, she had been told, yet an Ironborn man his age bore more scars than this boy had hairs on his balls.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?“ she asked suddenly and lent back. For a moment, the Stark boy looked in her direction, but he quickly averted his eyes and continued to stare into the depths of his horn.

“Does it matter?“ he said after a while, and finally, finally locked his eyes with hers. Blue they were, blue like the sea. _What a pretty boy._ “We’ll do what needs to be done." He raised an eyebrow. "I’m sure you will show me if I don’t know the way.“

Asha smirked at that combination of indignant challenge in his eyes and the flush that spread over his neck. “What a smart boy you are,“ she teased. “Now help me out of this costume, will you.“

 

*

 

Rickard Stark was a force of nature to be reckoned with when enraged, but Balon Greyjoy had always struck Catelyn as a madman, and so she was not surprised that he had challenged her father-in-law. She had taken to remaining silent as the dispute between the two men, both lords and nearly _kings_ in their own right, raged on while time flew. They did not even take notice when Robb, Rodrik and, to her surprise, Asha entered the room, all visibly exhausted, yet eager to participate in the military debate that was dictated by the two patriarchs trying to tower over each other and not succeeding.

Cat tried to watch Asha and Robb from the corner of her eye, assessing the distance they kept, they glances they exchanged, the bounce in their steps despite the tired dragging of limbs, all the signals she had once taken in from Brandon after he had bedded her. Yet she could see none of that, at first – both remained calm in each other’s presence, stoic composure freezing their expressions as they stared down onto the giant board with the small wooden beasts arranged all over the Seven Kingdoms. But Catelyn knew her son inside-out, better than any man wanted his mother to know him, and she saw the tension in his shoulders when Asha brushed against him, saw the twitching of his fingers and the slight slip in control when his eyes darted in her direction. A light smile formed on Cat’s face.

“Fifty ships are not enough for an attack on the capital,“ Rickard insisted in the slow and persistent voice that she knew to be the one he used with Brandon when he was proving himself as hot-headed and reckless as a pup again.

“We are not attacking tomorrow for dinner now, are we,“ Rodrik retorted with a slight smirk, supported by a chuckle from his brother Maron. Catelyn fixated them with hard eyes. “By the time we are ready to march on King's Landing, you will have the Manderlys' ships and more than a hundred thousand men who will march on King's Landing and strike the same moment as our ships do.“

“But until then,“ Asha threw in and pointed at the wolves scattered over the board, “you need to reassemble the North, might need to take the Westerlands, you have to occupy the Neck and the Riverlands, you have to join the Stormlords and the Reach, oh, and the Dornish, and the Arryn forces, should they come, you need to agree on a compromise with them, and all of that with the Targaryens stepping on your heels. This war won’t be won in a week, nor in a month or a year.“

Robb growled under his breath, Rickard’s already hard face froze to a mask of solid stone, the smouldering glow lava burning through the cracks, but it was Catelyn who spoke up. Slowly, she put her hands down in front of her, pressing her fingers on the carved pattern that was King’s Landing, and locked her eyes with that of her new daughter. She may be a Stark only in name, not in blood, but she had witnessed the pain and the anguish of those she had grown to love for near two decades, and she felt with every fibre of her flesh what she now said. “Neither did it take a month or a year for the wounds to heal after the Mad King burned Lyanna Stark. Niether was it over in a month or a year or even a decade when Aerys banned the whole House of Stark from the Seven Kingdoms in a fit of paranoia, when he took away our home, our land, our title. It might take years, yes, until we prevail. _If_ we prevail. We are rebels now, as are you, and we do not know what will happen, so all we _can_ do is to be prepared.“

“You had the weddings now,“ Lord Stark continued. “Your daughter has been wedded and bedded by my grand-son, one day she will rule Winterfell and the North by his side. Your son has a young bride, eldest daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and grand-daughter of Tywin Lannister.“ He leant forward. “That is more than you could ever have hoped for, and now I demand that you keep your end of the bargain and provide the ships you promised.“  
Silence fell. One glance at Balon Greyjoy and his brother Victarion and the realisation struck Catelyn just how much he had just offended the Ironborn, and then a moment later, how little it seemed to matter to them.

 _Your offers, wife, not mine,_ she heard Brandon say again and a cold feeling settled in her stomach.


	8. II.

 

**II. where innocence is burned in flames**

 

The wail of her child wakes any mother.

She hit and screamed, engulfed in the flames devouring their minds as her flesh was torn open by the scales of the dragon she had woken. Stormborn, they called her, yet she had no power _over_ the storm, and what good was it then, the thunder cracking her skull and the lightning shooting through her body. Attacked, she was, she thought for a moment, for a moment of clear sky, until a loud scream ripped her open inside out and she was lost in her cloud of anguish again.

The wail of her child wakes any mother, but Dany’s mother was long-since dead.

 

 

*

 

Visenya squeezed her eyes shut. The trace of her husband’s fingers on her collarbone helped her to lock out the roar and screams that came from her aunt and uncle’s chamber, but Dany’s high-pitched voice still crept in at the edge of her perception. It was worse than usual and every cry cut into her heart like Viserys’ nails and teeth into Dany’s skin. Frantically, she pressed her palms against her eyes and shoved Daemon away from her body. “How can you listen to that?“ she hissed and jumped out of bed. “How can _anyone_ listen to that?“

She nearly _heard_ him shrug. “He’s her husband. We do not like it, but he has the right.“

“He does not,“ she whispered. A cool winter breeze formed goosebumps on her skin, but she only wrapped her night shift more tightly around her body, only to give in and tuck herself in an expensive robe of black velvet that her father had had made for her fifteenth name-day.

Her collarbone burned, and she felt her half-brother’s presence loom like a corpse behind her in the shadows of the bed chamber. The sounds of the Red Keep beyond the balcony washed over her and drowned out the screams of pain. She furrowed her brows and listened. No, they had suddenly stopped, way too suddenly.

Somewhere in her head, a string snapped. Visenya backed away from the window.

“Visenya – “

“He has _no_ right!“

Daemon reached for her, but she ducked under his arm and stormed out of the chamber. _Norightnorightnorightnorightnoright –_

 

Dany was a wreck, bleeding from scratches and bite marks and between her legs, too, though Visenya could not see it then, but she recognised the smears of blood on the sheets from all those times she herself had bled _(for a different reason, though, completely different, Daemon would not do_ this _to her)_ , and bruises were already forming on her whole body like a patchwork rug. Whimpering, the princess cowered on a pillow in the far end of the room, covering her breasts with trembling hands, pressing her legs together as if that helped.

Gently, Visenya let herself down beside her aunt, covering her tiny body with her own as they listened to the people chatting down in the alleys, to the screams of fighting cats and to the yells of a prince who called himself a dragon and liked to bury his claws in those of his own kind.

The cool winter air stroked them like soothing hands, and for a moment, Visenya wished not for dragons, but for wolves.

 

 

*

  

_I am to marry._

Those words that she had always feared would come one day. Her intelligent brother, her gentle brother, her caring brother, and now he, too, would be sucked up into the current that was the game of thrones. For there could only be one girl in the Seven Kingdoms who was so worthy of her brother that her name need not even be mentioned.

Margaery closed her fist around the letter and breathed in deeply. The babe kicked. A son, she was sure. A Targaryen prince. Her grand-mother had warned her. Olenna had warned her and Margaery had not listened, winter had been far from the South then, after all, and the crown so close.

 

 

*

 

The screaming had stopped. He had heard the prince storm out, the fires still not quenched, but neither the crying nor the fear stuck in all their bones had ceased. What if he had killed her this time?

Jaime Lannister did not move, but his jaw was clenched with rage under the visor as he stood still and upright in front of the bed chamber of Daenerys Targaryen, most nights left alone, but a den of terror when her brother-husband visited her at night, and he saw the Knight of Flowers tremble with indignant anger down the hall where the princess Rhaenys slept.

They all hated it. All but Loras remembered the King himself treating his wife in a similar way; remembered how sad, fair Queen Rhaella had looked as if ravaged by a beast so many days. They were protectors, yes. Yet no-one could save a wife from her husband, not even a princess. The Kingsguard must protect the King’s family from all harm, but who were they to fight for when one royal ravaged another?


	9. III.

 

**III. a million miles from home, I’m walking ahead**

 

 

Myrcella had been told that her father and Ned Stark had once been like brothers, and still were, for all they both knew, for only the Mad King’s word kept them apart. Her father had even travelled to Essos once, not so many years ago, supposedly for wine and women and the thrill of danger that he as a Lord so rarely felt now. He had brought back a token from Brandon Stark younger son, Brandon the younger, for Cassana, since it had always been known that they were to wed one day.

When she had been younger, Myrcella had wondered why it was not her who would marry Robb, the heir, the important one, why Cassana was deemed better. _“Your Father is the Starks’ friend anyways, they do not need to assure themselves of each other’s loyalty,“_ her mother had explained then, _“and you might still inherit Storm’s End one day. You cannot marry another heir. War is chaos, and in chaos, anything is possible.“_

Yes, she understood why father had aligned himself with the Starks, those faceless names floating in history and lore of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet it was still a mystery to her why all those _other_ lords, all those different men and women with crowns of words and paper had accepted.

“Are the spices to your taste, my lady?“

Cocking an eyebrow, she raised her head. Her husband looked at her questioningly, leaning his head towards her in an affectionate manner. She fought not to cringe. Her little frog prince had been infatuated with her since the wedding, infatuated in that quiet, honourable, insatiable way of his. Yet all she could think of was Robb Stark and how Cassana should not have it better than her. “I do not dislike them,“ she answered with a mild smile. _I loathe them._

“Shall I tell the cook to make the food like this more often? Apologies, my lady, I am not familiar with your habits yet and I want everything here to be to your satisfaction.“ He took a bite off the bread-like wrapping himself. He seemed to enjoy himself well enough, and Myrcella did hate to make any trouble.

“If you could tell him to serve dishes with peaches more often, I shall be more than happy.“ The peach, the fruit of the Gods, Renly had taught her, and she had very excitedly taken over that point of view. Now, though, she saw Quentyn’s face fall a little, that face where he carried all his emotions on display for everyone to see. She was used to her father not saying, but roaring out his feelings, and his sadness had always quickly turned to anger. Quentyn’s face was so soft and gentle it might have broken her heart, would that she had a spot open for him.

They ate in silence for a while, or rather he ate and she picked at her food, forcing herself to at least put some of it in her mouth, where she quickly swallowed so as to not have the taste in her mouth for any longer than absolutely necessary.

 

A knock on the door disrupted their meal.

“My prince?“ One of Quentyn’s personal guards opened the door warily. “There is someone to see you and your lady wife.“

Quentyn’s frown deepened, and for a moment it seemed as if he had expected – feared it. “Who?“

“Your future sister-in-law, my prince.“

Myrcella got up with a _bang_ , her chair falling back on the floor with a shattering sound. The guard’s words rang in her ear until it faded to the sound of falling snow.

 

Arya Stark entered the door, grey eyes carved into the stone of her bronze skin.

 

 _So that is the face of winter_ , Myrcella thought, suppressing the tremor that started spreading from her hands, from her arms to her chest and her heart, _bang-bang_ , hammering against her ribs. _The face of vengeance. The face of war and death, and it would be better those grey eyes and that horse face had stayed away._

She had seen Edmure Tully more than once, and Lysa Arryn, too, and she knew that this was not the face of the river lords, it was a Stark face, a face of kings and fallen lords, a face carved in trees, a thousand years old.

 

“Welcome in Sunspear,“ Quentyn said quietly. “So it begins then.“

A grim smile appeared on the girl’s face, younger even than Myrcella’s, and yet so much older. “It has already begun.“


	10. IV.

**IV. I’m frozen to the bones, I am**

 

 

The North was so much different from what he had imagined. The only warmth sprang from the naked skin of his wife, writhing under his hands, the hot breath that was released under the touch of his mouth on her lips, her neck, her breasts, her body. In those moments, he thought it was the only warmth he needed, but when they left the warmth of their blankets the next morning, entering the chilling cold of their chamber, leaving that and placing a foot on the freezing stone floor of the ruin that was Winterfell, winter gripped their hearts until they could break its hold on them again in the night.

 

“Must you really go out today?“ Alys whispered drowsily as he crawled out from under their furs. The candle’s flickering light threw dancing shadows on the stone walls, night still reigning even though in hours, it should have been day already. Winter had come to the North five years ago, and it still had a firm grip on Winterfell and the whole shattered North, wandering further and further south. Jon had arrived to Karhold by sea and thus had not seen the horrors that Lord Rickard had told him of, but since then, they had travelled further to his family’s ancestral seat, and tales of dead men and horses went round amongst the Karstark men, stirring up a fear that had always been buried deep in Jon’s mind.

“Your father is taking me to a village,“ Jon answered and kissed the top of her head. Her short fingers grabbed him by the locks and pulled him down for a kiss he gratefully gave in to. “There have been disturbing reports from that area. The other villages have been abandoned.“

She screwed up her long face, _almost a Stark face._ “See to it that you return safely. And tell that my father as well, Jon. I don’t want to have to burn you.“

“You won’t have to,“ he promised, and he meant it. They had not been married for long, for a fortnight only, but Alys reminded him so much of Arya and of the home he was so supposed to have, that they were all supposed to have. Tracing the curves of her body was riding through the layers of snow, kissing her standing on the edge of the Grey Cliffs, her smell the red leaves of the Weirwood. “We will come home just safely.“

  

*

 

Frost lay in their nostrils, ice covered eyes and mouth and hair and furs and agony was writ in their blue, blue eyes, scarlet lines running down their bodies. Jon stared back in horror.

_So it is true then._

 

Something moved.


	11. V.

 

 

 

**V. a soldier on my own, I don’t know the way**

 

 

She stretched out a hand. “You are not the man I expected.“

“Nor you the woman.“ Brandon Stark did not take her hand, nor did he bow. He merely caught her eye with his, assessing her and judging her, just like she did with him, and he did not look at her not-quite-breasts, or her not-quite-child-bearing hips, or her not-quite-so-elaborately-done hair, but her eyes and eyes alone, taking the measure of the danger she could pose to his family’s cause, and he became _Bran_ in her head, for one day, she would be his wife, and for now, it did not seem too bad a match. Slender, and tall, and with eyes older than all the other men she had seen in her life, as though he had witnessed time come and go. Green they were.

 

 

 

 

*

 

“They have seen us march, and they fear us.“

It was the greatest war council that Westeros had seen in centuries. Wolves and stags, krakens and roses and fish, and even a sun-and-spear, all united by the silken thread of a thirst for something that nobody could give them – that they had to take themselves. For justice, for vengeance, for a crown.

It was Robert Baratheon who had summoned them all, but it was clear who it was that led them. Rickard Stark was the man they were there for, and his eldest son, and all his grandsons save one who was in the North taking back what was theirs by ancient right, and the boy who had stayed with his sister.

Her father had taken her along with him since Myrcella was in Dorne with her husband and Cassana was thus the only child he could bring. Yes, her uncles attended, too, but for some reason, her father had insisted that she come with him. She had not asked, for she was glad that she could watch them all decide the future of the Seven Kingdoms around this table. _And watch my husband, and what kind of man he is or will be. Nothing shows the spirit of a man as well as the company of other men._

 

"They have seen us march and they are assembling an army, that is the more important point." Rickard Stark waved his hand and had Bran, the youngest of his attendant offspring, move about wooden pieces on the map of Westeros rolled out on the big table which was situated in the middle of the tent. The boy had done this before, Cassana noticed, and not once.

 

Oberyn Martell rubbed his chin. He had brought no troups since the Martell forces were waiting in the South for the attack on King's Landing, yet his presence proved to be a sign of trust from his brother's side. "Rhaegar wants to prepare the city for a siege –"

"Then he should fucking do that," Brandon grubbed and clenched his fist. “We’ll starve him and his brood.“

"But my friends in the capital," Oberyn continued as if he had not been disrupted, "have whispered in my ear that the King wants us all dead and burned, and as soon as possible at that. He is forcing Rhaegar to move the army away from the city, although it is not clear yet where he will march."

A grim smile appeared on Robert’s face. “Where he marches, we follow."


	12. VI.

**VI. I’m walking up the heights of shame**

 

Winter had not spared the Vale, and Catelyn had already caught a slight fever, not used to these harsh conditions anymore _(she must have gotten it on the road, but then again, she has been here for near a week already and it only starts to show)_. The Free Cities had made her weaker than she had been before the exile, less resistible to the frost than in her youth.

She knew that she should step away from the window, step away from the cold, but getting any closer into the room would mean getting closer to Ned, and she did not think she could bear that.

“Jon has asked me why I am not wed,“ he spoke up then, and Cat heard him smile. A sad smile, she was sure. It was like whenever they were around each other, mist sank down upon them, weighing down their hearts. Rarely enough did Eddard Stark laugh, but he had never done so in her presence for the past sixteen years. “Whether it is because of Ashara and what happened to her.“

“What did you tell him?“ Catelyn’s stomach turned at the thought of Ashara Dayne, the only woman who would ever bear Ned’s child, though they had not loved each other, of her descent into madness and death and of poor little Jon Stark left alone without a mother. She had tried to fill that hole in his heart as best as she could, but somehow, he had always known that for him to be able to bear the name of Stark was more due to his grandfather’s mercy and pity than anything else.

“Nothing, I put him off. He did not ask further.“ Ned remained silent for a moment. “I could not lie to him, Cat. He was always like a second father to me.“  
“I am not asking you to lie.“ _Oh, and how I wish we both did not have to lie._ “I could never.“

“Cat – “

She drowned in the pain in his eyes and a heartbeat later, her lips pressed a little kiss on the corner of his mouth, where they lingered for another moment, and she breathed his warm scent, his hand suddenly tangled in her hair, and so they stood, for the first and maybe the last time.

 

*

 

It was colder than he remembered. Winter winds howled through rifts in stone, and the icy halls of the Eyrie threw back the echo of his steps as he strode through the corridors, body tense, eyes hard.

His lips burned. His hands were covered in a layer of sweat. His breath was shallow and went _fastfastfast_ , near as fast as his heart hammered in his mouth. Something tickled his fingers with the faint touch of memory, _red locks_ , blue eyes burning his skin.

Ned clenched his fist and quickened his pace towards the door to Jon’s chamber. _She is not mine_ , she was _not_ _his_ , and she would never be. Catelyn had travelled here to the Vale after the wedding of her (of _Brandon’s_ ) son, to try and reason with her sister, and so, for the first time in years, he could speak with her and watch her without the fear of Brandon entering the room any minute. There was no one who knew him better than his brother, and it was a wonder that he had not read Ned’s eyes right in all those years.

_I could never._

Sometimes he wondered how his life would have been, had it been him to wed Catelyn Tully. He would never touch her _(dream of it, yes)_ , never let her break her vows with him, not that she would ever let _herself (this was no kiss)_ , but sometimes he caught himself looking at Robb, at Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon, at the warriors and queens, at the children of winter they had become, despite the summer that they had grown up in, and ask himself what if they had been his? He loved his own son more than anything in the world, more than even Cat, and yet he found himself wishing for more, craving to see Catelyn cradle their own babe in her arms.

 

“Lord Eddard,“ the guard greeted. Ned nodded as the door was opened for him, where the Lord of the Vale would welcome him. Jon had fallen ill not a week ago and had sent a messenger that he felt a little better now, insisting they continue their negotiations as Lord Arryn, Warden of the East, and Eddard of House Stark that they had started upon Ned’s arrival.

 

Jon’s chamberlain approached him, a weasel-like man Ned thoroughly mistrusted, charming and silky, hiding his venom behind smiles.

“Lord Eddard,“ he smiled and handed him a goblet of wine, which Ned declined.

“What is it, Baelish?“ He took a look around the room, not spotting Jon anywhere. “Where is Lord Arryn? I understood he wanted to speak with me.“

“I regret to say that Lord Arryn has further weakened, my lord.“ While Baelish’s face remained indifferent enough, perhaps with a hint of sadness, his eyes glistened with the glint of something Ned did not understand. “I have received orders from Lady Arryn, however.“  
“Did you?“ Ned fixated Baelish with hard eyes, yet the man did not seem bothered at all.

“See, Lord Eddard,“ he began almost cheerily, “you and your family – you are traitors.“

Ned did not move, his thoughts descending into a rush.

“The King only wished, and _still_ wishes to protect the realm from all harm and danger.“

“The Mad King himself is the realm’s greatest threat,“ Ned retorted. Something moved in the corner of his eye.

“Allow me to disagree, my lord.“

“And who are you to _disagree_?“ He cursed himself when he reached for sword and his fist closed around air.

 

“Seize him.“


	13. VII.

**VII. I’m waiting for the call, the hand on the chest**

 

He was gentle, and kind, and Highgarden was a beautiful place, filled with the scent of roses and clear, fresh air that cooled but was not cold. Sansa still wished, however, that she could be with her brothers or with Arya, or even with Jon.

With the light occasional snows that melted barely three heartbeats after it touched the ground and the gardens kept immaculate, to sheer perfection even, one would never suspect that a war was brewing, the greatest war the Seven Kingdoms had seen in at least a hundred years. She had done her duty, she had married Willas, she had lain with him and let her family lock her into this golden cage that Highgarden was. Yet it was _her_ , not her family, who felt vengeance slip from her hands as she watched her belly grow and her husband fight with quills and ink and paper and a bad leg.

With a silent sigh, she turned away from the window and stood behind Willas who was drafting a letter to a recipient unknown to her. There had not been word from her mother in nearly two moons now, but surely he would not keep it from her had she written?

“Who are you writing to, my lord?“ she asked quietly and reached out to stroke his neck with her slender fingers that he loved so much. Goosebumps formed on his skin and a blush began to spread from under his hairline and his shirt. _We have lain together, and I am carrying his child, and still, he blushed like a maid_ , she thought. _At least I have that kind of influence over him, if not on this war._ She had imagined her role to be greater, more noble and more significant than this.

“To my father, love. He ordered administrative changes be prepared in case we win this war, and I am writing to him about the progress.“

“What kind of changes?“ Her fingers wandered down his neck to his collarbone. „Does he wish to reform the Reach?“

The quill stopped. Her fingers, too, poised when he carefully laid it down and turned around to face her. For a moment, he studied her face. “What do you believe will be the future of the realm when all this is over?“ he asked quietly. She had frozen, limp fingers hanging against his skin.

“We will fight, and we might lose.“ Her hand continued the movement, if only to distract him from how long it took her to answer. “We might also win, and what happens next – “ _I could go home._ “ – will be decided by all those who win.“ She would have wrinkled her forehead, had that not contradicted everything her septa had taught her.

“And what then? Houses win, or lose, and the war is still not over.“ Willas sighed and reached for his cane. His leg pained him way too much to walk without ir for long, she knew. Yet when he had cloaked in green-and-gold, he had stood upright, the knight she had secretly dreamed of as a girl when she had not yet understood the meaning of _marriage_ and _vengeance_ and _home_. “And what then?“ he continued, standing in front of her, cupping her face with one of his large hands. A sad smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Warm his hands were, warm and dry, and Sansa was afraid. “What do you think, my lady,“ he whispered and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. One hand flew to her belly, and she began to understand. The other grabbed him by the collar, as if not to fall. _I would never fall. I am a wolf, and I am winter. My heart is steel and so is my skin._ She wavered. “Why do so many Houses support your family?“

“It is the just thing to do,“ she repeated what her father had told them, although the words felt like a layer of ash on her tongue and she saw that _he_ saw that she did not mean it.

Balon Greyjoy was not the only one who had wanted a crown in exchange for his support. _A crown for their army, that is what all these lords want, Mace Tyrell and Doran Martell and all the others. There will be no realm after this war._

Willas lowered his face to hers and left a sweet kiss on her lips. “And when did the Seven Kingdoms care for justice?“

 

*

  

Another gasp, a shoot of pain, and a helpless wince from her husband. _Not a king, not yet, maybe not ever._ Margaery suppressed a scream of pain. _Queen I shall be, that is what I was told. They lied to me._

“It is too early, is it not?“ Aegon had grabbed her hand and squeezed it now, and she wanted him _gonegonegone_ , him and his pretty face and soft skin and gentle heart, _greatnessormadness_ , they said, greatness in his soul, given be the Gods, madness for her and her dreams of crowns and glory and honour, of beautiful children with soft brown locks and violet eyes.

“It is not unheard of,“ the midwife snapped, but Margaery heard what was now said. “We will do everything in our power.“

“Save her,“ Aegon said, and tears welled in Margaery’s eyes when the pain of another contraction seized her body.

A Tyrell king there would be, what her father had wanted, her son or her father or her brother, but before that, they should stand on different sides of the battlefield, and some would die, _someone_ would die.

“Save her,“ her husband repeated shakily, and yes, she was a rose and she had thorns that could skewer a lion, but thorns were no help against fire, and she burned before the dragon that would be her doom.


	14. VIII.

**VIII. I’m ready for the fight, and fate**

 

 

Arya was not used to sitting, or waiting. During their exile, her parents had always seen to it that the children were occupied with something, be it sword fighting or riding or running through the market, knocking over buckets and bowls of grain and fruits. When she spent time with her sister who _oh so loved_ her sedentary life with her embroidery and her suitors, it was her choice and her choice alone, perhaps after a day of riding on the plains with Bran, chasing after Rickon, archery with Jon and sword fighting with Robb. She was not as capable an archer as Jon, but better than Bran or Robb – not as strong as the boys but quicker than all of them – Robb was the best rider, but Arya easily bested Bran, and Jon did not even try to compete with her.

Here in Sunspear, where she had been wedded and bedded by Trystane Martell a fortnight ago, _I did my duty after all_ , only to be left to rot in the castle while he enjoyed himself playing _cyvasse_ with his brother’s wife. It was Quentyn Martell, her good brother, who sometimes engaged in conversation with her, while Trystane seemed more interested in pretty and charming Myrcella Baratheon instead of his sullen Northern wife.

She hated him, she hated Sunspear and she hated waiting for vengeance, she wanted to _do_ something, and so one day, when Arianne Martell came to her with news from King’s Landing, news of fire and death, _again,_ she bit back her screams and her tears and bottled them up to release them when she would slash the Mad King’s throat.

She hated sitting around, and so she left.

 

*

 

His white cloak was smeared with ash, and his heart bled. Trembling hands were held in place by the hilt of his sword, grabbing it as though it was what stopped him from tearing them off his body to present them as a gift to the Gods if only they would save his sister.

Margaery’s screams, a tremor in her voice, rang in his ears once, twice, thrice, thrown back and forth between memory and present like in a hall of marble, disrupted only by the laughter of a King and the roar of the flames. _Burn him_ , and Eddard Stark was engulfed by the flames, torn and bloody skin stretching on broken bones.

Loras Tyrell ignored the earthquake shaking the roots of his world and stared at the stone of the wall before him as his sister was ripped open by a dragon and he did not cry, _he did not he did not hedidnot._

 

*

 

The floor of the throne room was still warm where the flames had touched it, where the pyre had stood, and she could still hear her grandfather’s laughter. She did not remember, but her father’s eyes had told her of the day her mother had been alight in the same place as her brother on this day, and she wept.

Now there she stood, amid the ashes, and thought she saw the Iron Throne be coated in frost as her heart slowly rotted inside out.

 

*

 

The gloves were too big for his hands but he strapped them on anyways. Robb raised his head.

“Rhaegar’s army is not far,“ his father murmured and stared down at the board with the small wooden figures that had been accompanying them since Tyrosh. “And still no news from Ned. The Arryn forces should have been here days ago.“

“They are likely on their way.“ Beside him, Garlan Tyrell’s squire strapped the armor on his lord, and for one moment, Robb envied him the simplicity of the action. He only had to see to it that the armour fit well and protected his lord well in battle. “Even if he does not – we will need his reinforcements after the battle, too, and we vastly outnumber the Targaryens.“

Robb tried to strap the glove more tightly. It had seemed to fit the last time he had tried it on.

“The king’s madness is a gift from the Gods then, or we would be throwing ourselves against high stone walls now,“ Asha laughed and grabbed him by the hand to stop him from fidgeting with his glove. With one determined look, she yanked his wrist around and started readjusting it. “Let us pray that they remain on our side.“

Robb tried to smile, and failed.


	15. IX.

**IX. the sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head**

 

 

He had hoped this moment would never come, and yet he had known, _he had known_ from the beginning his father had ordered the fire.

 _I could not do anything, it was out of my power_ , he thought, but who was he to say this when he himself blamed his own cowardice in the face of his father for it?

  
Too late now. The roar of the enemy rose over the field that the Gods had chosen for them, and for a moment, Rhaegar thought he could see Rickard Stark under the wolf banner, face of stone and heart of ice.

 

His hands gripped the reigns of his horse a little tighter, and he gave a short nod to Jon. Was this what it all had lead to? _A song of ice and fire_ , and it was not his son’s, it was his own.

 

*

 

A cry reached his ears, and he thought he knew the voice. It was gone the next moment, the silence it brought filled with the clashes of steel and wood and animal, horses screaming alongside men, and he did not think, he _slashed_ and _struck_ and _blocked_ , when the feral glares of dragons cast their evil eyes on him and he painted their banners in the same red that they wore.

Burning, _burning_ in his side and he lost balance, a howl rose from his throat and somewhere, it was answered.

 

*

  
Silence fell over the Red Keep, and it stayed.


	16. X.

**X. the thunder of the drums dictates**

 

 

 _Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name_.

Robert raised his hammer high over his head, and the wind ripped a roar from his lips as the Trident swallowed the dragon prince whole. Blood stained the clear waters crimson, a deeper red than the dragon on the black banners royalty wore. Mud-stained men, bloodied men, desperate men flocked to his battle cry and he saw his little brother somewhere, and Brandon’s boy, too, stags and wolves flapping in the wind alongside trouts and krakens and roses.

  
And falcons still nowhere to be seen.

 

*

 

The battle had to be leagues away, and still she thought she could smell the blood and smoke and hear the screams of thousands upon thousands.

“Soon, all will be over.“ Her mother stood behind her on the battlements of Riverrun. “This folly of you father’s will not last.“

“Folly?“ Tyra did not even pretend to face Cersei. “You forget that this _folly_ meant my marriage to a Greyjoy.“

“A Greyjoy who happily set you aside to spend your days in Riverrun, loveless and childless, while he plays at a rebellion with you father, in the faint hopes of winning a crown for his sorry family. A kraken crawling on land, a wretched image.“ Her mother smiled humourlessly and shot Tyra an estimating look. “Do not worry. In the end, it will be us to triumph.“

With the battle sounds rising again in her ears, her eyes further stared into the distance, hungrily craving an impossible glimpse of her father, her brother. “Does the beast lie in ambush already?“

Her mother’s silence was answer enough.

 

*

 

The silent cries of mother and son were absorbed by the wind as the Moon Door closed behind them, and the bodies of Jon Arryn and Catelyn Tully lay in state in the High Hall, frozen in time, as the Mockingbird banner rose all but visible above the Vale and the breath of dragons fell over it again.


	17. XI.

**XI. the rhythm of the falls, the number of deaths**

 

 

A bloodcurdling roar quaked the foundations of Riverrun.

 

Never had there been such a reunion in the castle on the shores of the Trident, and never such sorrow. The line of biers was long, and families from all over the Seven Kingdoms stood in mourning as the Septon praised those who had fallen in the battle of the Trident, in that first great battle of the wolf rebellion, lasting four days, a battle that had been won although it did not feel that way.

 

Robb Stark, head of his house, stood vigil by the bodies of his father and his grandfather, felled by dragon princes all, and swallowed back the tears as Robert Baratheon bellowed out his rage at his brother-in-arms’ death at the stake. He felt Bran’s glance creep up his neck, and something akin to a rock brought down his shoulder bit by bit. His wife had disappeared at the sight of her dead brothers, only the youngest left to her now.

 

 _Aegon Targaryen will burn for this_ , he swore as he looked down upon his father’s headless body. _The whole of King’s Landing will burn for this._

 

*

 

“Send his head to his father,“ Edmure proposed and leant forward in order to look into his nephew’s eyes. “Let him see what we are capable of.“  
Asha snorted, ignoring the stiffness in her husband’s neck, the hard fingers on her lower back. She knew what it was like, _she knew now_. “He lost near five thousand men, he knows that we are capable of killing. I would suggest not sending word at all so they all go even madder not knowing what has happened to their precious silver prince and their army, but since Aegon and so many men have escaped – “ Her voice broke off when she felt it going thinner.

 

Rain was hammering down on the tent that the rebels had chosen for their meeting, and it swallowed the words some of them had the strength to press out. Somewhere, men were still screaming at the Gods to take them, if eternal silence had not already closed its hands around them and choked the sounds from their throats. No man should stand so still as Asha’s husband did now, back bent but hard as stone, and now that she did not wear chainmail armour but a simple tunic, she felt his fingers sink into the cloth, grabbing it. She thought she might feel it, the trembling of his soul when he thought of his father and grandfather, fallen, his uncle, burned, and his mother, died of a fever in the fruitless quest to bring her sister to their side, and she _felt_ it, because when she looked around, she still expected to see Rodrik and Maron stand on the other side of her, hiding Maron’s strategic genius behind arrogant smirks and remarks. She wondered if this haughtiness had seeped from their skins through their flesh down to their blood, if that had been the reason they had been so recklessly killed by nameless dragons.

 

Faces of stone surrounded the wooden table that had been what they could dig their bloody hands in since the very beginning of this … this _rebellion._

Edmure Tully and his only son, that Lannister boy who, if one was to believe the rumours, was not their firstborn, but the first born of Edmure Tully’s loins. How convenient that the first boy had died of a simple fever. Asha quickly averted her eyes before her face could betray her thoughts. _Joffrey,_ she remembered. Joffrey had been that unfortunate boy’s name. Her mother had always made her memorise all the names of lords and heirs and all their children; it could have been her new family once. After the golden boy’s death, all the children seemed so _tully_ , the Reader’s messengers ( _spies_ ) had told them, and yet she could see enough Lannister in Rodrik’s wife.

Mace Tyrell, leaning hard on the table. She saw the bulge on his side and the lack of heavy armour and the beads of sweat slowly running down the sides of his face, and she knew that Sansa Stark’s husband might be King before long. The second Tyrell, a bush more than a rose, towered behind him, handsome face hidden behind scratches and bruises and a sorrow set deep inside his eyes.

A storm was seething on the opposite side of the tent where Robert Baratheon loomed over the table with his two brothers and his younger daughter, who seemed delighted in a very _stony_ way that she was allowed to attend. Asha turned her head away from the much too pale girl, to Robb’s brother _(brother!)_ , and quickly looked back to her table, fixing her eyes on Westerlands texture, trying to cool the boiling rage inside her.

Her hands felt cold on the harsh wood when she realised that there was not a single kraken in the tent anymore.

Was that what victory felt like?


	18. XII.

**XII. the rising of the horns, ahead**

 

 

 

He had always had dreams about Winterfell. His father would have been grandfather’s and then Brandon’s captain of the guard, and he would have been the same for Robb. The winters would come and go and the flames would warm their halls, but the summers were sweet, and it would feel like home.

Jon Stark had never experienced winter before, though, and Winterfell had become half a ruin since the Stark family had had to abandon it near twenty years ago and when the Mad King had tried to burn it down, but failed.

And there he sat, face to face with a man named Jeor Mormont, a Lord Commander of the Watch, whose men had blown the horns three times from the walls of Winterfell not even a day ago.

 

They were surrounded, and they knew it by the blue eyes of rotten wolves and shadow cats creeping through the Godswood, and by the smell of something colder than even ice hanging in the air like the fumes of the dead.

 

*

 

For a moment, Robb thought it was a cruel jape when Asha burst through the flap of their tent and announced the approach of falcon banners on the horizon in the east, and lions in the west.

“ _How?_ “ Mace Tyrell breathes not far behind him when dragons and falcons and lions sway in the fog not far enough from where they stand. “It has only been a fortnight. Jon Arryn has not even been replaced yet. _Who_ could control his armies?“

“The throne.“ Renly lays a hand on Robb’s shoulder and smiles, the desperation of those who are already lost. “You should have your bitch of a wife skewered, Edmure.“

He feels Asha’s hand rest on his other arm. “Too late for that now,“ she says. “Now, are we going to fight or should we all put on pretty gowns so we look presentable when we surrender ourselves to Tywin bloody Lannister?“

Robert’s growl was all the answer they needed.


	19. XIII.

**XIII. from the dawn of time to the end of days**

 

 

When Winterfell had been built, the children of the forest had still graced the soil and earth of Westeros with their existence. They disappeared, night came and went, and Winterfell still stood.

The stone stood, but men now slowly vanished, too, First Men and the Andals, one by one when darkness fell, and it rarely ever clambered to its feet again and let a spot of sun dance over the blanket of snow. They lived in darkness now, and they died in darkness.

 

“Will they make it?“ Jon asked quietly. He was not used to the cold, unlike Rickard Karstark or Jeor Mormont who were both standing on either side of him. Sometimes he wondered why they had decided to come back to Westeros _now_ , the Starks who ruled winter, for they clearly did not. Winter had hit the North with its full force, and even if they did win battles in the south, where would they reign, where would they _live_ when these creatures devoured every piece of human soul?

Nobody knew, he told himself, nobody could have known, and still, a frozen fist had closed around his heart when he had had to let her go. Her and his family’s people.

There was no way knowing whether the Others had already gone past Winterfell and further south, only leaving reserve troupes to, slowly, crush the living. There were certainly enough of them. It seemed as though a whole army of wildlings had been touched by the White Walkers. If they had marched since the first day they had breached the walls of Winterfell, they were past the Neck already. Jon had learnt the maps, he knew the land even though he had never set a foot on it. Past the Neck and the Twins and down into the Riverlands, following the Trident. They did not have to worry about the cold, for wherever they went, snow followed.

“Chances are, they’ll live, chances are, they’ll die.“ Jeor lay a heavy hand on his shoulder. “But if they had stayed here, they surely would have died.“

Jon turned his head to look at the old man. _The Old Bear who thought he had seen winter, and was wrong._ “Will _we_ make it?“

The Lord Commander just smiled, and Rickard Karstark bellowed out a laugh.


	20. XIV.

**XIV. I will have to run away**

 

 

It was like dancing on one of her name day feasts. 

 _Run_ , and her feet hit the stone floors in the rhythm of the drums, _runrunrun_ , her breath got stuck in her throat, and she thought she heard iron glide through the air behind her.

The doors were locked, and she was caught in the cage of marble walls when she backed against the closed entrance of her chamber, and a man, more beautiful than the Silver Prince and more horrible, brought down his sword, and she ducked and thought she might live.

Then her face began to burn and she felt the side of her head and her neck begin to warm under the flood of the hot storm blood of the last Storm Princess Argella.

 

 _I will never see Storm’s End again_ , she thought as the steel pierced her breast. _I will never come back home._

 

*

 

Her horse was dying under her, and she felt that she was, too. It was snow they breathed, not air anymore, and she thought she heard the rattling breath of a dead man, although how could she possibly hear that over the rage of the storm?

 

*

 

Cassana Baratheon did not run, and yet there she was. The burnt walls of Harrenhal rose before her like a monstrous giant in the fog of winter. She wept, for she was alone, and pairs of blue and green eyes were likely staring at the sky lifelessly.

Slowly, her mare trotted towards the ruin that had once been destroyed by fire, and would soon be taken by ice. She knew that winter was coming south, and that Harrenhal was a likely place for the Lannister, Arryn and Targaryen forces to lead their army towards, but she had nowhere else to go. Cassana knew very well that she could never make it to Storm’s End.

She was still there, when the snows came.

 

*

 

There were no battles anymore, only victors and those they had defeated, wolves and dragons, and stags and lions, and krakens and roses and trouts, and a pelt of snow covering it all.

 

His cloak was flapping in the wind. A crust of blood covered his breastplate, almost like a dried-up river. One only knew by the wolf on his armour that this had once been the Lord of Winterfell, and the earth still heard the screams of his wife, _not him, you promised_ , and the trees wept with the ringing of treason in the air, the stench of broken vows and lawlessly lawful execution.

They had found a wolf to sew upon his neck, and cold dead eyes from two severed heads stared accusingly into the misty air of the battlefield.

Lords and not-a-lady were caged up underneath his rotting feet, tears dry on old faces, fresh on young ones, and the reek of puss and inflamed flesh stuck to the old stag’s skin like death itself had licked the wound.

 

Then, somewhere, a shadow with eyes of wildfire appeared, and locks opened, and hushed words were exchanged, and ropes cut.

 

Red dragon on black ground, fire and blood on ash and death, it painted the clouded sky in a moving sea of victory, lions prancing beside them, falcons soaring the grey heaven beneath the snow floating down like moving in the water.

 

Until all who still drew breath saw it freeze before their eyes and closed their hands around the hilts of their swords, and, weapons drawn, ran.


	21. XV.

**XV. I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste**

 

 

“You are King now,“ she whispered in his ear. His body trembled under the strain it was under, and his leg bled with pain.

“I cannot – “

Sansa’s fist grabbed her husband’s shirt when something in her heart convulsed. Thoughts of her mother and her father and her brother and grandfather and Uncle Ned and everyone she had ever loved, _dead now_ , flooded her sight and she pressed her lips to Willas’ ear. “You are _King_ now,“ like he didn’t understand, and maybe he did not want to. “You are _King_ , and you must take that responsibility like your father would have.“

“How can we be sure?“ Willas planted a soft kiss on her forehead, lips trembling, and she felt his tears join hers on her cheeks. “The rider said he was not sure what had happened.“

Sansa straightened herself up and took his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. He did not mourn his father as much as he feared what his death meant for all of them. It had had to be expected, he had gone to war, and they were all lucky that Garlan was still alive. Yet it was Willas who would wear the crown, and Sansa could not have him cower in the face of their enemies. “They sewed a wolf’s head on my brother’s shoulders.“ She tried not to let the dread seep into her voice and kept her tremor in her fingers. And still, Willas must have felt it as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to himself _(to comfort whom?)_. “Why would the man lie about that?“

“He wouldn’t,“ her husband sighed. A moment’s silence lay heavy between them, with the weight of dead fathers and brothers and sisters setting their expectant eyes upon them. “He did not know what happened to your brother Brandon. We must prepare Rickon for what might possibly come, and we need to keep him close.“

Sansa nodded against his chest, her sight obscured by tears. “We will.“ _Not Bran_ , she thought. _Not Bran, too. This revenge has cost us all too much already._

 

*

_It is not just winter,_ Asha thought. _It is a dead winter._

Snow had reached them less than a fortnight ago, but the land seemed so dead that she thought she might be quite alone in the world, were it not for the panting of Edmure Tully beside her, clutching his side, the low murmur of Brandon Stark and that Reed boy he had appeared with, and the heavy silence of Stannis Baratheon as their small group of hardly more than a dozen marched down the road the boys were leading. Garlan Tyrell was amongst them, the Tully boy, Renly Baratheon _(carrying his dead brother’s sword)_ and some of the bannermen lucky enough to escape the Lannisters’ forces that had been brought together by gold, not loyalty.

The smell of rotting flesh still clung to the air around her, and she felt the looming threat of dangling feet above her head. They had driven a spike through his body, and put his head on another, setting him up above their cage so they could never forget who it had been to lead them into this war _(only that it had not been Robb, he had been a boy still, her boy)_ , to lead them to their demise and to crush the peace that had reigned.

 

Dead men had come over them like flies over a corpse, and it was only because of Brandon and Reed that they could avoid the paths the wights would take. _Greensight_ , the boys called it – Reed supposedly knew where they had to go, where the dead would not follow. It was a strange gift, and Asha would have refused to follow the boys’ lead so easily had not dead men been nibbling at their heels. They had proved themselves right, though, and so she followed in their shadows, hand around the hilt of a short sword she had taken from a still-dead man, head down, and thoughts with the man her father had forced upon her.

 _Winter is coming_ , Asha thought, and then snorted, _Winter has come, and it is devouring us all._


	22. XVI.

 

**XVI. Of the blood on my lips, again**

 

 

She stood like a looming shadow over the grave of a kingdom. Blood still dripped from the knife in her hand, and a crown lay at her feet. A realm, crumbling before her. Peace, at her disposal. Revenge, inside her reach.

Arya Stark took a step back from the bleeding body of the madman who had called himself King as the doors burst open. She opened her arms, gripped the knives tighter and turned, and faced a raging lion. No doubt, he had discovered the summer knight drowned in his own blood behind the door. Arya had not wanted to kill him, they were kin now, after all, yet he had insisted that he was not a rose anymore, but a white cloak, and so his death had been a necessity. A Braavosi had once taught her the water dance and she had washed away the boy-knight with her knives.

The she-wolf had eaten the rose with all its thorns, it had teared open a dragon’s throat, it would not fall prey to a cat without a fight.

She had her revenge. She needed no more.

Arya Stark threw herself at her enemy.

 

*

 

News of dead men roaming forests and fields of the Riverlands and much too soon the Crownlands as well reached the capital while the bells were still ringing for Aerys II. Men, women and children were pounding at the doors of the Red Keep, begging for shelter even though all knew that no wall could hold back death.

And yet counselors wrung their hands at the thought of the head that would wear the crown, for the man they had wanted to crown was dead, and his heir was lost, and the only dragon king they could justify was a man they knew better than to crown.

 

 

*

 

“You are to blame for all of this!“

Visenya took a step back.

“It is you they came for! You and your whore mother, this happened because of _you_!“

 _It did NOT, I have nothing to do with it_ , she wanted to scream, but her uncle’s hand collided with her face the moment she had wanted to throw the words at him, and they stuck in her throat as the blow felled her. _A dragon and a wolf, and here you lie before this madman._

Her jaw did not want to move as she tried to speak up, but her words would have been swallowed by Viserys’ rage anyway, so she just lay on the ground waiting for the storm to pass. It was best that way, even though the boiling dragon madness in her stomach commanded her to rise, to fight, to spit fire. She quenched it.

It was only when he suddenly grabbed her by the hair and Dany, sweet Dany wailed that she understood just _how mad with anger_ he was. Nails and teeth and screams did not help, and soon the marble pillar shone with the red of dragon blood.


	23. XVII.

 

**XVII. This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands**

 

 

Ser Jaime had always protected them, and it had not been his fault the mad wolf girl had attacked their father and killed him, neither was it that of Lord Commander Barristan. It was no one’s fault but the Knight of Flowers’, and he had paid for it with his life. Dany knew that. Ser Jaime had never done anything wrong in his life, And yet she could not help but wonder what had possessed her golden knight to tell her of the stores and cellars of green fire their father had let the pyromancers build for him. He knew that Viserys was never far from her, and she could not stay quiet when the dragon licked at her belly, gracefully scratched it with its razor-sharp teeth, when she would quiver with fear, how could he not understand that she was not able to withhold anything at all?

 

When the dead men had started scraping at the gates of the city and many of them now wore the torn and tattered fabrics that were so distinct for the Crownlands, her brother-husband had decided to rain down fire upon them, for fire they feared as much as a dead man could fear anything. And when Ser Jaime had told her of the wildfire their father had stored underneath the city, it had been one of those nights when Viserys would not restrain his rage at the world _(and Visenya could not hold her after it, she would never be there for her again)_ , the words had simply slipped from her mouth then, more a whimper than a scream and yet both.

 

Green light licked at the city walls when pots of liquid flames descended upon the heads of the dead, snow melting in the air. Stone crumbled, wood cracked, fire roared when it devoured one inch of soil after the other. Walls caved in, and soon the city was on fire.

 

“We will all die in the fire,“ Dany whispered into the wind as she felt a presence behind her. The door to her room and to her balcony were open behind her, so it could be anyone. Why should it matter? They could take all of her gold, she did not need it anymore. “Won’t we? We are no dragons anymore.“

“I will not let you burn, princess.“ Ser Jaime had stepped close to her and stared into the green flames. Not so far anymore. Not far at all. The Red Keep was yet untouched, but it would not remain that way forever. Her brother had unleashed a storm that neither of them could control any longer. “We can leave right this instant, princess, I will take you to safety.“

“Will you?“ She turned. He was taller than her, and she had to bend her head back to look into his eyes. Green fire. “And where would you go with me?“

“Wherever you wish, princess. Dragonstone, maybe. Or Dorne. You could leave for the Free Cities. Somewhere where the dead can’t touch you.“

As gentle as it was possible for her trembling fingers _(not fear now, no)_ , she stroked Ser Jaime’s cheek. She wanted to touch the gold of his armour, see if it was as warm as his skin. “I would like that.“

“Pack all you can, but only what you need, princess. I will tell the Lord Commander, and we will leave.“

Then she was alone on her balcony.

Quickly, she breezed into her room again, dug out a linen sack that she had sometimes used when riding, and started packing, just as Ser Jaime had instructed her. This would be the first, and last, chance for her to break out of the eternal spin of _madnessgreatness_ that her family was caught in. Ser Jaime provided her with it. She could not let him down.

 

Viserys was never far from her, though.

 

“Where are you going?“

She did not even freeze but ran backwards, tried to make her way to the balcony from where the wind carried ashes, screams and the stench of burning wood and flesh into the room.

Her husband-brother came after her with long steps, and grabbed her by the arm. “You are _not_ leaving,“ her brother-husband hissed and tried to yank to her back into the room. “We are _family_ , we are _dragons_ , and we will stand as _one_! You will _not_ leave without my permission!“

“We will burn,“ she whispered and tried to fight, she did, she tried, but he was stronger, as he had always been. Her arms flailed and she grabbed, she grabbed _something_ , and suddenly, blood oozed from his temple, he was on one knee, and his eyes went wide with fury.

“You _whore_ – “

But she remembered the way Visenya’s head caved in, she remembered the sickening smash, she remembered the acid burning of torn flesh, she remembered screams in the night and in the day, and she remembered the look of surprise in her niece’s eyes as he yanked her up by the hair the same way he held her arm now, and she put all that in her arm and _remembered_ and _remembered_ and _remembered_ , until she sat atop of him with the gold-and-crimson pot in her hand and he lay completely still.

 _Madness_ , she thought, yet this time, it filled her with pride.

 

*

 

 _Madness_ , he thought, and it filled him with dread. He remembered the empty eyes of his sister, his _wife_ , and the wail of despair that had come from Rhaenys’ chamber when they had heard of the loss of their father’s army and of Aegon’s disappearance, and the screams of the Stark who had been devoured by the flames, and the roar of the green fire filled his ears and the emptiness that should have been his heart as he stared into it from atop the city walls. The light danced on the black metal plate of his armour, and he hated it, he was a _dragon_ , it should have been red.

 _Fire cannot kill a dragon._ It could not, it would never, and so he took a step into the air and spread out his wings, soaring into the flames.


	24. XVIII.

 

**XVIII. I’m frozen to the bones, I am**

 

 

Riverrun was reigned by ghosts.

The reek of sweat and blood and tears clung to the expensive curtains and sheets. Cersei had not dared to open her door or her window for the past week.

She had never feared anything in her life, as long as it did not concern her children; not the cliffs at Casterly Rock, not the marriage to Edmure Tully, not the prospect of war. She was a lioness, the daughter of Tywin Lannister, she cowered before no man.

Yet her brother’s birth and the end of Joanna Lannister had taught her to fear one thing, and that was death.

 

Now death walked the halls of the castle at the river and bore many faces and Cersei Lannister was afraid. Cersei Lannister cowered.

 

It was death in the mantle of her daughters that haunted her in that night, blue, blue Tully eyes in all of them, and cold fingers formed a pale chain around her neck, and she could not fight. They were her children after all.

 

*

 

A slight layer of frost had eaten itself into the fabric of the Mockingbird banner. A little man with blue, blue eyes staggered through the halls of the stronghold, eyes even more blue than those of the woman he had loved _(and killedkilledkilled)_ , and somewhere, a door had been left open. Silence, then a scream. And silence again.

 

 

*

 

She sat like a queen on what had once been the seat of Harren the Black, and she waited. She had been waiting since before death had reached Harrenhal, and she would wait until the ice on her skin would melt and the snow storm that had enclosed her had uttered its last breath.

She was a Storm Queen, and she had not bent.

 

 

*

 

Jon had never seen so many fires, and so many men dead. The heat of the last one still flowed over him in waves, more in his mind than in his bones, alternating with the freezing cold of the Others. He stretched his fingers, made a fist, tried to melt the frost that sat in the depth of his marrow. Most his toes were lost to the ice, black and dead, as were his ears and some of his fingers. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Dead men were inside the walls. They buried themselves in the snow only to emerge when a living man was walking over them, pulling him under by his ankles. They had poisoned all the food with the pestilence of the breath. They ripped down the curtains of the beds where Lady Catelyn and Asha _(Greyjoy)_ Stark and maybe even Alys would have slept one day. They had invaded every inch of the fortress.

 

He held the torch to the pile of wood that his good-father lay on. Rickard Karstark had taken him in within the blink of an eye and had nearly become a second father to him, in fact, more of a father than his uncle had ever been for him. He had seen the North in Jon, and he had embraced it.

The flames licked at the branches and limbs, they crawled up Karstark’s cloak and closed themselves around his feet and elbows and hair. The stench of burnt flesh bit in Jon’s nose, but he could not help but watch as the future that might have been tore away chunks of his soul as the fire consumed more and more of the body.

It was what they needed to do. Blue eyes had become their worst dreams, the nightmare that followed them day and night – night and night, for day rarely ever came anymore.

 

As he always did, the Old Bear lay one of his great paws on Jon’s shoulder and shook him slightly. “It is time, boy.“

“It is time,“ he repeated, voice hoarse from the smoke and the ash and the memories, and he put another torch to the wooden ring they had built inside the walls, Pypar of the Night’s Watch one to the one atop of them, and the flames ate their path through the last wood they had left.

“The crypts will stand,“ the Old Bear murmured beside him, “you will rest beside your ancestors and one day, Winterfell will be as great as it once was.“

Jon could only nod, his neck strained with the effort not to cry out.

 

Once again, flames engulfed Winterfell, the last stronghold of the First Men, and with it, the last defenders of the North.


	25. XIX.

**XIX. A million miles from home, I’m walking ahead**

 

 

Edmure Tully had not lasted long. They had no been in the Reach for long when the wound fever had eaten up the last part of wits and then of his breath. That night, they had warmed their hands at a fire a boy had lit for his father.

The snows had grown rarer and eventually stopped the further south they got, but Asha forbade herself to hope that they would one day truly be able to outrun winter.

 

The gates of Highgarden opened to them easily enough when Renly Baratheon charmed them with southern words _(for his face was not of the South anymore, with the beard and the stains of mud and blood)_ and Garlan had stepped forward to claim his right to set foot into his childhood home.

A red-haired beauty and a boy of no more than ten ran towards them and held on for dear life when they could wrap their arms around Brandon the green-seer. Asha thought she smelled the salt of reunion and grief that stuck to all their faces.

The clank of wood on stone attracted her attention. Crippled and crying though he was, Willas Tyrell _(King of the Reach?)_ lay a hand on her elbow. “I am very sorry, my lady.“

She tried to snort, but it got stuck somewhere in her throat. “Renly Baratheon is more of a lady than me, my lord.“

A sad smile turned up a corner of his mouth and he just looked at her for a moment. “I have dispatched a raven to your father, my lady,“ he then said. “With a warning of what is coming south.“

“Thank you – but he will not heed it.“

“Then that will be his choice.“

Asha stared at the embracing wolves kneeling on the ground only a few steps from her. “Will we be safe here?“ she whispered, so as not to disturb that picture. Ten they had been when the ships had sailed from Tyrosh to Westeros. “Have there been news from anyone?“

“My wife’s sister –  she died when she slit the Mad King’s throat. Killed by the Kingsguard.“ His eyes froze. “She took my brother with her.“

She fought down the reluctant respect that lay like a stone on her heart. Brave, and she had died for it. “From the North?“

“Nothing. The capital, though – it has been burned to the ground. No one seems to have escaped, yet the news have been scarce.“

Her hands shook, her breath was shallow. The grim that had dug deep furrows into her skin was replaced by what one might believe could be akin to grief. When the tears started running down her cheeks, she felt the strain in her lungs, her heart, her soul release little by little. “The Drowned God take them all,“ she wanted to hiss, but it ended up a mere breath escaping from her lips.

 

*

 

They had not spoken a single word of what had happened. Not of gold-and-crimson, not of crazed screams or torn-out hair. Not of a princess who walked right through the flames when they tried to leave the city.

Ser Jaime had only been good to her. He did not mind the short hair, or the way she clung to him at night. He had long since shed the armour and the cloak, and now they were a simple sellsword and his young sister, his golden hair somewhat matching whatever had started to grow back on her head, only slightly darker than hers. They had attracted curious glances at first, the beautiful man and girl with stubble on her head, but she had learnt to keep her head down so no one would see her dragon eyes and Ser Jaime had heard enough sailors’ talk on their journey to the Free Cities to lay a dark past and dubious honour into his speech _(but he was the most honourable knight, the most, most, most)_. They had had a mind to travel further east as to avoid recognition; yet there had been that house in Braavos, a house with a lemon tree and a red door, and Dany had loved it more than she had ever loved her luxurious chambers in King’s Landing.

Ser Jaime took good care of her, and after some time, she did not mind the absence of powder and scented bath oils _(Ser Jaime had told her that they should save their money and wait until people stopped looking for them, and then she would live like the princess she was)_ and she even missed Visenya a little less. But she knew that whenever the tears threatened to choke the little rest of life from her that she still had left, she could hold on to the linen of his shirt and breath the scent of _home_ and she would be safe.

 

It was three fortnights after they had purchased the house that Dany found her mother’s crown among Ser Jaime’s clothes, and she needed no tears to cling to him that night.

 

*

  

Tyrosh was a city of colours, and a city of greed, and so many a knight competed in the more exclusive arenas for the crown of gems. Young men tried to prove their skill, old men tried to prove their worth; and all cheered to the sound of clashing steel and the sight of dancing beasts painted in all colours.

To this day, to the very moment that he grasped his scarred fingers around the silver, jewels embedded into the fine ornaments, no one had ever heard of the young griffin with the blue locks and the eyes of a crone who had outlived all her children. Yet there he stood, and thought, _this is the only crown I will ever wear, sister_ , and held it up for her to see. _This is the only crown the spider spoke of when he whisked you out of our home and reunited us in Pentos._

 _It is the only crown you need_ , she thought, still feeling the flames on her skin. _It is the only crown I will ever ask you to wear._


	26. XX.

 

**XX. I can’t remind your eyes, your face**

**\- epilogue -**

  

The sun had snuck up on the realm with inaudible steps. For the first time in a generation, the snows began to melt underneath their feet.

 

Slowly, Sansa Tyrell, born of House Stark, mother of five, a woman who had seen half a century come and go, set a foot on what used to be her family’s soil.

“The crypts still stand,“ Rickon murmured behind her.

“Of course they do.“ Lady Tyrell ran a finger over the cracked walls, still painted black from the ashes. Now, finally, they could see what they had once fought and lost so much for. “They guarded it for us. From now on, there must _always_ be a Stark in Winterfell.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it :)


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